Lawnchairs After Dark
by FullMetalCrayon
Summary: Tony Stark may not be the best at reading people, but he does understand suffering. Even the kind that makes people punch perfectly innocent balcony windows. Pre-slash


Tony Stark was never terribly good at reading people.

And if, on the off-chance he found someone he cared about enough to want to lift up their mask and see who they really were, under all the fakeness (because everyone had a mask, really) he would just ask someone else to find out for him. Or build a robot to do it. Or, in most cases, simply be blunt and ask them straight-up what the hell was wrong.

Being blunt was one of his many strong suits.

But even if he wasn't good at reading others, or bothering to dredge up the strength to care enough, he understood suffering when he saw it.

The night was crisp and beautiful as he glanced out over the skyline of glistening New York City from a window on the twenty-ninth floor. It was fitting, really, that he lived in a city that never slept. Sleeping squandered time, he had convinced himself, and thus made sure he ran himself to near exhaustion and only slept when he couldn't physically keep himself upright anymore.

_("C'mon, Pepper!" he'd said brightly, when she futilely tried to convince him for the umpteenth time his sleeping habits were less than healthy, "I invent things for a living! How do you expect me to make a livelihood if I'm sleeping all the damn time?")_

_(He didn't add that he just didn't like to sleep. Nightmares, broken spirits, and all that.)_

_(But it was okay, because if he was being honest with himself, Tony Stark wasn't afraid of anything. Definitely not enough to lose sleep over it. He just didn't want to sleep.)_

_(Or, at least, he told himself that.)_

_(Sometimes he lied to himself so much it was believable.)_

His nighttime rituals of being wide awake and doped up on caffeine (God bless Mountain Dew and instant coffee) or sometimes something a bit stronger led him to explore all the nooks and crannies of his Tower, when he wasn't having a stroke of genius and inventing something that would change the modern world forever. He'd built the goddamned Tower (or, rebuilt, after Loki kindly decided to lay waste to his beautiful creation) and he still didn't know what was in all the rooms.

Or that he had a nice balcony off of the thirtieth floor.

On this particular nights rambling, scotch in one hand and flashlight in the other (he couldn't always remember where his team members slept and didn't want to wake them) he stumbled up a stairwell, his ears picking up the faint sounds of honking horns and whooshing of cars that marked outdoor New York drifting in through an open glass door. He ignored his brief instinct that maybe someone out there wanted their privacy and made his way over to it. (Tony Stark? Respecting privacy? Please.)

(He didn't tell himself that maybe he just wanted to see another human being.)

It wasn't until he was about to step out onto the actual balcony itself that he noticed the pile of glass shards and the absence of an actual door. After deciding that he would see to it that this got fixed sometime in the maybe somewhat distant near future (what did he even keep on the thirtieth floor?) he glanced up and saw the hunched-over back of Steve Rodgers, clutching his hand to his chest with an unreadable (to Tony) poker face.

Oh. Apparently he kept a Captain America on the thirtieth floor.

Who looked like he was suffering.

Swallowing the instinct once again that maybe Steve needed some alone time, he stepped out onto the balcony, carefully avoiding the glass with his bare feet. "Oh, c'mon now, Capsicle," he said lightly, smirking when he saw the Captain in question jump about twenty feet off of the ground in surprise, "What did my poor little door ever do to you?"

Steve turned around, catching Tony's mock-upset expression and opened his mouth several times, probably racking his brains trying to think of something witty in return, but after much debate, settled on a small _sorry._ His wavering voice betrayed his carefully blank face to Tony before he quickly turned his face downward, embarrassed. He was no Tony Stark, not by a long shot, but he still had a mask that he liked to wear, and he hated when others (especially team members) saw the suffering underneath. After a beat of awkward silence, he murmured, "I'll pay for it, I promise."

Tony slurped down a bit of scotch and made a sound in the back of his throat. "Don't worry about it. I _am_ a billionaire, after all. I think I can afford one glass door." He paused, taking another drink (he had a dangerous suspicion it was about to get emotionally charged, and he hated dealing with emotions) "Although, just…next time, go punch something less expensive and _dangerous _when you're upset, please. I could've cut my foot, you bastard. I'm kind of a big deal, you know, and I like my feet intact. I'll have better punching bags installed for you in the gym when the rest of the world wakes up for the sake of your poor hand... and also my- arguably more important- feet."

Steve blinked in surprise. He knew Tony well enough to understand that he was being kind and trying to hide it under snarky remarks. Steve also knew that he was nervous, and therefore rambling, and if Steve didn't interject something soon, he'd be on the roof with a chatty Iron Man for the rest of his existence. Sighing and rubbing his face with his non-bleeding hand, he turned to Tony who was eyeing his empty glass with a sad, pouty look.

"You don't have to do that," Steve replied carefully, clearing his throat, embarrassment resurfacing when he realized it was hoarse. "I've got plenty down there already."

Still looking at his glass, Tony shrugged. "Then why, pray tell, did you come up to the thirtieth floor at," he stopped for a moment, and pulled out his phone to check the time, "three twenty-two am and smash my very innocent balcony door?"

If Steve was shocked by the offer for better punching bags, he was floored that Tony hadn't already scampered away for another drink. Tony Stark didn't do emotions, or other people. He was a strictly me, myself, and I type of person. He didn't care about his team members that personally (especially Steve. Didn't they hate each other?) Instead, though, he was standing on a balcony, surrounded by broken glass, wearing no shoes, sweatpants, and a tank top, asking another human being about his feelings, however indirectly. A human being known as _Captain America_ who, before this moment, thought Tony Stark was a heartless asshole that didn't care about anything.

And now he was bordering on _kindness_.

Well, Steve supposed, there was a first for everything.

"Couldn't sleep," was Steve's answer for Tony. He figured that it was vague enough not to make the moment too heavy and it seemed to be something the other man understood well, if the bags under his eyes were any indication. It also wasn't a particularly valid excuse to go around smashing doors, but it was the best one he could think of off the top of his sleep-deprived brain. Tony didn't seem to mind, and took it at face-value, grateful.

Tony waved his now empty glass in the air after taking a long look at Steve. "That's why this stuff is great," he explained brightly, for all the world looking like a maniac as he stuck his tongue in the glass trying to lick up the last little bit at the bottom. "Keeps you active and useful in your sleeplessness!" (Or, at least, that's what Steve thought he said, as Tony's tongue was still deep in the glass.)

The situation, hilarious and a bit uncomfortable, was finally too much for Steve and he allowed himself a small smile, which quickly turned into soft laughter at Tony's expression. His eyebrows were knit together in concentration as his tongue roamed around the bottom of the glass, looking for stray drops of alcohol, and was silly and a little bit sad, if Steve thought about it too much. Tony smiled, too, and retrieved his tongue and replaced it properly in his mouth. "What?" he said in mock confusion. "Are you, dear sir, judging my drink habits?"

Steve grinned again, and turned back once again to the view beyond the balcony ledge. "Sure is beautiful down there, isn't it?"

His ears detected a small scraping sound, and looked over just in time to see Tony grabbing two chairs that were sitting next to the door, and carrying them over to where Steve was standing. (In that moment, Steve decided to stop being surprised at Tony's little acts of kindness. The man was wildly unpredictable, untamable, and completely incomprehensible, but Steve already knew that.)

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the faint glow of Tony's arc reactor as the man plopped down in what Steve was sure was a very expense lawn chair, complete with a cup holder and a nice fluffy cushion (people weren't kidding when they said Stark settled for nothing less than perfection), then yawned and gestured vaguely at the other one he'd left sitting behind Steve. With a clink as he set down the glass in the cup holder, he repressed another yawn and directed his gaze out at the view.

"Yeah," he said finally. "It is. Although, not as beautiful as seeing it from an aerial view. Flying is seriously underrated. I would be soaring through the sky right now at impossibly awesome speeds," he stopped, interjecting a grimace, "but Pepper was all up in arms that I'd scare people and it isn't safe to fly when I haven't slept in a while but really. Flying! You can't tell someone to not do it until you've tried it!"

Steve pried his eyes from the lights and sounds of the city to focus in on Tony, who was rambling still and talking with his hands. (Steve had never noticed the hand thing before, but Tony was such an alive, animated person it was to be expected.) He leaned back in the oddly comfortable chair, positioning his arms behind his head, and smiled at Tony who was, indeed, still talking.

He'd come up to some unused balcony because he had been lonely. The thirtieth floor, (unused, from what Steve could tell) should've been silent. Peaceful. And should have let him brood in quiet.

But Tony Stark had this amazing ability of showing up when he wasn't exactly wanted, and Steve was, for once, immensely grateful.

Memories were still clawing themselves from the recesses of his brain, but if he focused on Tony's smooth, easy chatter, he could drown them out. He didn't want to see them, not Bucky or Peggy or Howard, not really, but they were the only true friends he had. A fish out of water, he was, being slowly picked up and dipped back down into the water.

By a man with dark eyes and a faint, glowing circle in the center of his chest.

It's very hard to be lonely when you're around Tony Stark, thought Steve. The man, even with his numerous character flaws and his penchant to annoy the Captain, at least knew how to talk about things that didn't matter.

Steve, shaken from his thoughts, tuned back in to hear, "You know, contrary to popular belief, I have a heart. Seriously! I had it nicely framed and wrapped in a glass box. But then I went into cardiac arrest and had to smash open the box and put it back in my chest. It's a shame, really," he concluded happily, picking up his glass to take a drink before realizing it was empty. He frowned, then looked up and shot the Captain a dazzling smile as Steve blinked in confusion and slight worry.

Tony burst out laughing (a bit drunk at this point, but at least he was a happy drunk) at Steve's torn expression. "Arc reactor," he clarified, seeing Steve's worried expression. "Gift of Pepper's. I'll- ah, I'll explain later."

Steve let out a sigh of relief, a bit puzzled at how worried he'd been when Tony talked about cardiac arrest and his failing reactor. He looked down at his hand, surprised to see it had healed itself already (how long had they been talking?) and looked up to see Tony's eyes on him, dark and a bit gloomy. It suddenly hit him why Tony was still sitting here, on a balcony at three-something in the morning, holding an empty drink glass and talking another man out of his sad stupor.

Tony Stark was an engineer, and a brilliant mask-maker, but his inner demons weren't quenched and driven off by skill.

Wondering who exactly was comforting who, Steve gave Tony a small quirk of the lips, and it was all the other man needed to bound with endless enthusiasm into their next topic.

* * *

They watched the sun rise over the city together, still talking. They talked about everything from movies (Tony's knowledge of pop culture from the forties was another surprise) to S.H.I.E.L.D to gossiping about their fellow teammates. Steve felt totally relaxed, and, if let himself admit it, a little bit happy.

He'd found this place, feeling sad, and left it totally content.

As soon as the sun properly rose above the city, an unspoken acknowledgement passed between the two men, and they both folded up the chairs and set them back where Tony found them. With a brief smile passed between them, they both stepped back into the room (which, Tony noticed, was pretty empty except for some crates with his company logo and a dilapidated couch), careful of the glass, and took off on their separate ways, Tony the stairs, and Steve the elevator.

The next morning, when they passed each other in the kitchen, there wasn't a stiff silence, or forced snide comments. They didn't look at each other, but their faces were both smiling.

Teamwork became smooth, natural, like breathing. Tony and the Captain still fought (Tony was too stubborn not to pick a fight sometimes) but it was mostly inconsequential things. Pepper noticed the shift between Tony and Steve, but she didn't say anything.

She never woke up to Tony screaming and sweating in the middle of the night anymore, so she wasn't going to mention anything. (Although, it would've been nice to wake up to him at all.)

(But she doesn't say anything. She's getting good at that.)

The team noticed, too, and started a bet on how long it would take before someone found the Captain and Tony doing it somewhere. Clint thought it was hilarious, and vowed to keep the bet from the two. He didn't need them to both kill him and then start having a lover's quarrel (which, if any of the members were honest, perfectly described fights between the two these days, even if two in question didn't notice.) And, really, this was the least broken anyone had seen Tony Stark ever.

The balcony thing (as he referred to it in his head) became another ritual to add to Tony's nighttime bad habits, even if this one was arguably better for his health. If, on the sleepless nights, Tony wasn't inventing something, or drinking himself to an early grave, he would head up to the thirtieth floor. If Steve wasn't drawing portraits of a lost love, or punching a (new and improved, Steve noted with gratitude) punching bag into oblivion in the gym, he would head to the thirtieth floor.

(Tony never cleaned up the glass. It was sort of a thing between them. An understanding.)

Sometimes, when one would wait out there for the other who never showed up, they would miss them and briefly consider going to the other's quarters and finding them, but would never admit it.

(Just a friend, they'd tell themselves, staring out at the skyline as the loneliness settled in. Friends are allowed to miss friends, right?)

(Right?)

Neither of the men was stupid, and the friendship that bloomed between them did not go unnoticed, or unappreciated. (They both had so many invisible wounds that bled through any kind mental bandage. Broken people can't fix other broken people, but at least they can share colorful bandaids.)

Some people thought Steve and Tony couldn't be rebuilt.

They were wrong.

And all it took was a balcony.

* * *

It was another sleepless night, and Tony didn't even think about heading to his bar for a night of binge drinking. Instead, he snatched an old jacket off the back of a chair and headed up to the thirtieth floor (taking the stairs. He didn't want Cap thinking he was desperate.)

It was another sleepless night, and Steve smiled because he heard footsteps on the stairwell beside his floor. Grabbing his own jacket (nice and neatly hung up in the closet), he headed up the elevator, not even caring when he and Tony arrived at the same time. It wasn't even that weird (it had actually become pretty commonplace to appear at about the same time); although Tony looked a little miffed that he hadn't made it there first.

("I like to be there first!" he'd exclaimed once when he arrived to see the Captain already comfortable in his lawn chair. "It gives me time to look mysterious and brooding and all-together handsomer, although I don't really need any help in that department.")

The chairs were in place in the usual spot, although closer together than they had been the first night, almost two months ago. (They tried to write it off in their heads as extra body heat for the freezing nights, but couldn't deny liking it all the same.) They sat down, Tony already talking a mile a minute (something about...iPods? Or maybe robots?), and Steve smiling good-naturedly, as was normal.

As normal at the pair could be, anyway.

When Steve saw Tony looking over at him, eyes tired but happy, he smiled wider at how clear Tony's eyes were, so different than the first night up on the balcony. They were like an open book, pages flipped open and words lined up in bold print from Steve to read.

(Some of the wounds had begun to scab over.)

And if Steve's arm slightly touched Tony's as they clinked their glasses together for a toast, ("To balconies!" cheered Tony, grinning as he gulped down scotch), and they kept them together for the rest of the night, they chalked it up to part of the healing process.

And if when Steve told a surprisingly dirty joke (Tony could bring out the best and the worst of people), and Tony leaned in a little too close with an absently mumbled, "You smell nice, Cap," then they just pretended it was the scotch.

(Although, after that, Steve never wore a different brand of cologne.)

(Sometimes they thought about how ridiculous this arrangement was, only really daring to be themselves on a balcony, late at night.)

(They decided they didn't give a damn.)

While Tony Stark may not be very good at reading other people or even himself, he knew happiness when he saw it in bright blue eyes, sitting across from him in a lawn chair on a balcony at some obscene hour of the morning. He also knew happiness when he felt it, stirring deep inside him as he brought less and less scotch to the balcony and more and more genuine smiles.

And he didn't even have to build a robot this time to figure it out.

* * *

There may or may not be a sequel, depending on the response I get to this, or how lazy I'm feeling.

Thanks for reading!

EDIT: Good heavenly pasta in the stars, I can't seem to quit revising this! Is this what people feel like when they send their kids off to school for the first time? A sense of longing, like you need to make sure they're perfect? Or am I just too attached to my stories…hmm… anyway, thanks for all the responses so far, and I hope the edited version just made it better!

EDITEDIT: LORD HAVE MERCY I found another mistake. God, I have to go get myself a beta reader..

EDITEDITEDIT: Almighty Thor I can't stop editing this! For the sake of my well-being and ability to produce other stories, if you catch a mistake, will you please leave a review telling me where it is? Thanks!

*IF* I can ever let this go, I have a good idea for the sequel. Just need to focus...

Cya next time!


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